


Light Years Away

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Can be read as slash, Friendship, Gen, Grieving John, Hiatus, John is pissed off, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft's Meddling, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, PTSD Sherlock, Past Torture, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions, Sad Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 07:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2764904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns two years after faking his death a little bit broken and yearning for normalcy. But John is angry and unforgiving after two years of grief. Neither are sure if their friendship will ever be the same, if it is repairable at all. The distance between the Detective and his blogger spans light years in every inch, unsure of whether they will find one another in the darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light Years Away

**Author's Note:**

> This is by far my longest story, it wasn't meant to be it sort of...got a bit out of hand. It seems that reunion fics are all my brain wants me to write at the moment.
> 
> AN 2016: I apologise to anyone reading this, I have recently edited this story, and by edited I mean changed it into an entirely different tense when I intended to correct a spelling error. I got so irritated with it, that I feel the need to apologise for what I'm sure is a truck full of mistakes.

**_Light years away_ **

 

  
John stood outside the entrance to the clinic, peering out from undercover, debating whether or not to wait or make a run for it. On one hand if he waited it out he would almost certainly miss the tube but on the other hand it was absolutely pissing it down and he would be soaked through before he even made it to the station.

 

He hadn’t brought an umbrella, he had formed a sort of hatred for the things, two guesses why.

 

He straightened his shoulders; you were a damn soldier, Watson, you can deal with a bit of rain, he chastised himself, stepping out into the downpour.

 

By the time he made it to the station he had an uncanny resemblance to an angry cat that had been drenched with a hosepipe. He when he reached Baker Street all he wanted was a warm shower and a cup of tea. Work had been busy with an endless line of patients with runny noses who were convinced they had the flu, screaming children, and an elderly man who insisted on sharing his life story during a routine check-up.

 

Despite being exhausted, hungry as hell, and soaked through, he paused at the doorway, slightly unsure what would be waiting for him inside.

 

It had been two weeks since Sherlock Holmes had turned up in his living room; a spectre of the past, but very much alive.

 

Just remembering the incident made John clench his fists and try to force down his fury. Sherlock had lied to him in the worst possible way, and John grieved the loss of his friend for two years. He made him witness his suicide for god’s sake; Sherlock had been dead to him, gone from his life in an instant.

 

His nightmares had taken a cruel twist, he had no longer dreamt of Afghanistant and the horrors of war; but tears, falling and blood on the pavement. The image of Sherlock’s once bright eyes, staring blankly, the blood surrounding his crushed skull, his broken and limp body was burned into John’s brain, imprinted on the back of his eyelids. He spent dozens of sleepless nights thinking over everything, anything, he could have said or done to save his friend, guilt eating him up from the inside.

  
  
~

  
  
But then after two years, two boring meaningless years, Sherlock waltzes into his life as though nothing has happened.

 

He remembers the shock, thinking he had finally lost it, reaching out and taking Sherlock’s pulse, only to find his heart beating. It all became a bit blurry for John after that, but he was distantly aware of himself having screamed abuse, and coming back to himself to see Sherlock sprawled out on the floor, staring at him in shock and nursing his jaw.

  
  
~

  
  
It had taken a full week for John to fully accept that Sherlock was alive, to stop creeping down in the middle of the night to peer at the detective; seemingly deep in thought on the couch or walking around the flat touching his things. He did that now, frequently, when he thought no one was looking, caressing random objects with almost reverence, most of which neither he or Mrs Hudson had had the heart to move.

 

The majority of his laboratory instruments, papers, bits and bobs, were still stored in his old bedroom in boxes behind a firmly locked door, but the mantle and his desk remained untouched.

 

John was annoyed with himself for not immediately turning Sherlock away after all he’d done. But Baker Street had been the only place he could ever imagine him living, it was Sherlock’s home, and it would always feel oddly bereft without his presence.

 

The atmosphere in the flat was still very tense, they only spoke when necessary and it was like two strangers orbiting each other in the same space.

 

Sherlock was uncharacteristically hesitant around John, as if he was stepping on eggshells, He found a perverse sort of pleasure from Sherlock’s discomfort. Let him squirm, John thought, god knows he deserves it after all he put John and all his supposed ‘friends’ through. John didn’t know if their friendship would recover from this, or even become a sliver of what it once had been. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted it to.

 

~

 

It had been six months after Sherlock’s ‘death’ that the police investigation had found Sherlock innocent of all accusations and Lestrade was reinstated from involuntary leave. The Super-Intendant was forced to make a reluctant public apology and to launch an investigation into police conduct, to find out why they had let things go so horribly wrong.

 

Sherlock Holmes was given a full pardon, but everything was too little too late in John’s eyes, Sherlock was dead and there was nothing they could say to him to make that right. Sherlock was deemed a fallen hero in the eyes of the press as they made a fickle 180 degree turn in opinions,(as they were want to do) and he was hassled for weeks at the door of his little bedsit.

 

He hadn’t been able to return to 221B Baker Street for an entire year after Sherlock’s death. There were too many memories, it was still so raw in his mind.

 

But nowhere else had felt right for John, and he found himself falling into panic one night when he realised he had forgotten what Sherlock’s voice sounded like. He moved back soon afterwards. There was only one place where he felt close to his dead friend, in the flat that they had once shared.

 

As it turned out Mycroft bloody Holmes had been paying Mrs Hudson’s rent in some kind of guilt stricken penance, so he had finally moved back in to Mrs Hudson’s tearful delight;

 

“Oh John, I’m so glad you’re home, I couldn’t bear to rent it out. I can’t lose both of my boys…”

 

All this time he had been gone, Mrs Hudson had been quietly choking with her own grief for the loss of the man she had treated like a surrogate son. Her pain hit him hard as he had tried to make up for lost time, to provide some comfort; feeling terrible that his own pain had blinded him to the fact that he hadn’t been the only one who lost someone important to them with Sherlock’s sudden suicide.

 

In those terrible two years John and Greg had become very close, going out to the pub or sleeping on each other’s couches after a long night of beer, take away and bad action films.

 

John never blamed Lestrade for arresting Sherlock; he never believed the lies about him. Greg had known the detective far longer than John, had seen Sherlock’s genius for what it was. But he’d been backed into a corner, and there was nothing else he could have done. That didn’t stop him from being torn up by guilt.

 

Some nights they talked about football and Greg’s divorce, others they sat in silent grief, some nights, when they felt up to it, they talked about Sherlock Holmes, and sometimes, just sometimes, they cried.

 

But they each found solace in not being totally alone, and the support they provided for one another kept them going even when Greg was suspended, and John could barely leave the flat from cloud of lonely depression that hung over his head.

 

Especially in the first months, when hurt and disbelief was fresh in their minds and the only question they could ask themselves was ‘why?’ Why would Sherlock do such a thing? Neither had ever thought he was the type to kill himself, despite his self-destructive tendencies; Sherlock had been too proud, too arrogant to resign himself to a death he himself would have described as ‘dull’.

 

He had never cared much for his reputation, and the pair had come to the conclusion that Moriarty certainly had something to do with it. They came up with endless scenarios to explain the tragic fall, and even more of the revenge they would have if Moriarty ever crossed paths with them again. But in the end it was all for naught, because there was nothing that could bring Sherlock back to them.

 

Or so they had thought.

 

~

 

As John finally walked up the seventeen stairs to the flat, Sherlock tensed from his position on the couch, and his head snapped around, on full alert. He paused for a second, staring at John with wide eyes and then slowly returned his gaze to whatever scientific journal had briefly caught his interest this time.

 

It was this behaviour that really pissed John off. Whenever he came home or made a loud noise, Sherlock would startle and stare at him like he couldn’t believe that John was there. As if it had been _John_ who had faked his death and disappeared for two years, leaving him all alone. No, John decided, he didn’t have that right.

 

Once, John used to think that he knew Sherlock Holmes better than anyone, including his own brother. He saw Sherlock when he was vulnerable, and he thought, just occasionally that he saw through his friend’s steely veneer of apathy, a good man who had a big heart after all.

 

He had seen this man as his best friend; their unlikely partnership had been the spark that brought John back to life after being invalided home.He had even come to believe that Sherlock cared for him; he had felt privileged to be the one person that Sherlock let into his home and his work, feeling lucky that this extraordinary man had picked him over anyone else.

 

But now he questioned if Sherlock had ever really cared about him at all. The things that his supposed best friend had put him through were nigh unforgivable. John was no longer sure about him, and the term ‘high functioning sociopath’ which he had never really believed was looking more and more like an accurate assessment.

 

They had lost trust in one another and John simply couldn’t let go of his anger, it was constantly simmering under the surface. But there wasn’t really anything to shout about to release it; (except the obvious) there were no experiments on the table, the fridge only held food items and he hadn’t seen Sherlock even glance at his violin.

 

Sherlock was quiet, jumpy even, and somehow that just made John more furious.

 

~

 

The day after Sherlock returned, when John came down for breakfast, he nearly fainted from shock to see Sherlock still curled up in his armchair. He was dressed in ratty sweatpants and a well-used hoodie, just as he had left him; unsure whether he was welcome to stay.

 

The only thing that convinced John that he wasn't hallucinating; that Sherlock was indeed there, sitting in his living room, was his strange attire and bare feet. He didn’t look like the Sherlock he would have imagined. He didn’t look like Sherlock at all with the short ginger hair, just beginning to curl.

 

John made tea (a cup for one) and sat in his armchair facing a dead man. He asked one word:

 

“Why?”

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, clearing his throat before answering, his voice slightly scratchy from disuse.

 

“Moriarty’s conundrum; ‘The Final Problem'; who lives, and who dies. I knew before we stepped onto that roof that his intention was my death, and I wanted, if at all possible, to avoid dying. Fortunately he made a mistake; he let me choose the location of our meeting, leaving me able to prepare to beat him at his own game.”

 

“Oh right, yeah of course. _'The game is on'._ I should have known, you put us through all that, just to win a bloody game,” John’s voice rises in volume and bitterness.

 

“John, I-"

 

“You keep your mouth shut; I’m asking the questions here, and you will answer them; honestly. That’s how this is going to work, got it?”

 

Sherlock hesitated but nods once slowly, looking like a caged animal, wanting to flee the conversation, hands twitching on his legs.

 

“Why the hell did you leave? You left for 2 fucking years, Sherlock, without a single word. One word is all I would have needed Sherlock, one word, to let me know you were alive. What the hell were you doing all that time, hmm? What was it that was so _important_ that you couldn’t tell me you were alive?

 

"What were you doing on your little holiday that you couldn’t even be bothered to  send me a postcard; ‘Hey John how are you doing? Oh yeah I’m not dead’!? What were you doing, while I was here going out of my damn mind?” John snarled.

 

Sherlock’s reluctance towards the conversation makes his anger rise again; he deserves answers damn it. But he forces himself to remain cool (if appropriately hostile) and give the man a chance to explain, and damn; it had better be good.

 

“Moriarty died on that rooftop, and no; I didn’t kill him,” Sherlock started, talking fast, avoiding looking at John’s face.  John narrowed his eyes at this new revelation, trying not to let his surprise show, keeping his face a cold blank mask of fury.

 

“But that had just removed the spider, the rest of his organisation was still active and soon enough, someone would take his place. While they were disorganised was the best time to strike. So I took advantage of the confusion, I and spent the last two years laboriously taking down Moriarty’s web,” Sherlock looked up, his eyes pleading.

 

“I wanted to contact you John, I swear; so many times. I- I never dreamt that you’d be so affected-.”

 

“ _Affected?_ You expected me to just move on with my life? After my best friend kills himself right in front of me? You made me watch!” John shakes his head in disbelief, smiling in the way that made Sherlock shiver; the dangerous smile that John had only previously directed at the worst of criminals; turned on him.

 

“John I-,” Sherlock started desperately, uncharacteristically stumbling over his words, knowing he had to get this right; “I apologise, I’m sorry, no I _am_ sorry,” He repeats at John's sarcastic huff of breath, “Sorry for all the hurt I have caused you…But you _couldn’t_ have known that I was alive, you couldn’t know! It was of the utmost importance that it was …realistic.”

 

Well congratulations; it was very convincing,” John interrupts coldly.

 

Sherlock winces slightly, the harshness of these words so unfamiliar coming from his usually warm and forgiving Doctor. He ducks his head, whispering earnestly;

 

“No one would have believed my death was final if you had not been seen to grieve, John. You were of the utmost importance to the plan, But I couldn’t risk contacting you, I never imagined I would be away for so long.”

 

John closed his eyes in anger, this was too much; they're getting nowhere, he can't listen to this.

 

“Enough. I’ve had more than enough of this for tonight, no, don’t interrupt me. I’m going out, and you fucking better still be here when I get back.”

 

He stands abruptly, needing to get away from the other man before he explodes. John retreats to his bedroom, dresses quickly and marches out of the flat, not having a clue where he's going, and not really giving a damn.

 

He takes the stairs quickly, not even glancing back into the flat; if he had done he would have seen Sherlock Holmes, trembling slightly, with his head bowed, large hands gripping violently at his unwashed hair in frustration.

 

~

 

That was as much as an explanation as John manages to get out of Sherlock, which only annoys him further. Even after two weeks, Sherlock refuses to elaborate, simply responding that he was ‘taking down Moriarty’s web’, acting uncharacteristically quiet since his return.

 

Sherlock knows John is angry, he has expected this. But he'd also assumed that John would forgive him reasonably quickly, and their lives could return to what they had once been; as though nothing had happened. It appears that he had miscalculated John’s reaction terribly, he never was any good with sentiment, not without his emotional compass, and had been caught off guard by the strength of John’s emotions.

 

He had at the very last moment, before he stepped over the ledge, tried to convince John that he was a fraud, to help him gain some peace, allowing him to move on, but it had been a futile effort, and typically loyal, John had continued to believe in him all the way to the pavement below.

 

On one hand he had intended for John to believe the lie; to think him a criminal mastermind, and move on with his life, it would have been easier for the man certainly. But on the other had he was selfishly pleased with John’s devotion, and a small part of him craved for John to wait, for time to stand still until his triumphant return.

 

The thought of returning to his city, to 221B Baker Street, and most of all; to John Watson had at many times been the only thing that had kept him going in those two dark years. For as much as he had not expected John to continue to grieve after two years, he had not predicted how he himself would be affected.

 

He had obviously known it would be difficult and dangerous, but he hadn’t anticipated just how large and unforgiving Moriarty’s network would be. He had travelled under so many names to so many continents, it had been a blur of shitty motel rooms, abandoned buildings, constantly on the run, focused only on the next target, the next informant, his next train or flight or disguise.

 

John had always been overly aware of the blood on his hands from the war, and Sherlock had not quite understood. He understands now.

 

John had killed in war, but that was different in a way to what he had done. The soldier in John had killed people, yes, but as a doctor he had saved many more. When John killed, it was war, forgiveable; heroic even. But what he had been doing, well; it was just murder. Another difference was that he hadn't had the back up of his comrades, he had been alone, so alone; in a private one man war against the world.

 

He wasn’t so used to being alone now, not after having tasted what it was like to have a friend. But the thought of returning to John had spurred him on in his worst moments, when he was camping out in a frozen abandoned house in Moscow, or in South America when he caught a fever so bad that he writhed and hallucinated for 3 days, losing 4 pounds.

 

It was in so many tight spots, when he'd thought all hope was lost, where he heard John urging him on, to get out, his subconscious showing him the best route to take. His subconscious sounded more and more like John as the days went on.

 

~

 

The first time he killed a man was in a quaint little hotel in Paris within the first month of his crusade. He hesitated with the kill shot, and after a brief struggle, ended up plunging a knife into the man’s throat. He watched in horrified fascination as the man choked on his own blood, only just keeping himself together enough to ensure he was dead before fleeing the scene.

 

He threw up in an alley three streets away.

 

But quickly he became very adept at his work, Mycroft would have been proud; he thought bitterly to himself, he made a perfect spy.

 

He had not been in contact with his elder brother, not after he fled London with his first few leads. He was out of the United Kingdom for the most part, outside even Mycroft’s control, although he was sure big brother hat been attempting to trace him. He estimated Mycroft had been be about 3 weeks behind him, following the trail of destruction Sherlock left in his wake.

 

There were no clues left behind that could lead to him, he had made sure of it, covering up one’s own crime was made much easier if one was a consulting detective. He deduced his own crime scenes, retrieving bullet cartridges and burning evidence, carefully leaving local law enforcement nothing to work with.

 

He was dead anyway, which was fairly indisputable, as far as alibis go.

 

He successfully hacked into several bank accounts in the Camen Islands once he tracked down an old man, hidden away in a small shop in Greece, who basically ran the accounts for many of Moriarty’s larger groups. He emptied them and transferred the funds back to Mycroft and scattered the rest to random places around the world, not really caring about the money, only taking what he needed to survive.

 

He rather regretted having to kill the old man; he had helped him with very little resistance. But Sherlock could take no chances, others could get to him, make him talk, and they certainly would come once they had noticed the flow of money had been cut off.

 

The man was calm and resigned to his death (a prerequisite for Moriarty’s more seasoned pawns it seemed). He  seems almost relieved to be free; out of the game for good, perhaps even satisfied to, with his final act, get his own revenge against the organisation that had threatened and controlled him for many years.

 

Sherlock gives him a quick and painless death for his help.  
  
  
~  
  
  
After being dead for about a year, his arrogance starts to get the better of him. He hates the work, he wanting to go home with every breath he takes. So he had tried to rush, exhausted and desperate to get home. To John.

 

The work kept him constantly occupied, he was never bored exactly, but it was running him into the ground, physically and emotionally. Unlike the people he was up against, (and despite what Sally Donovan said) he took no pleasure in killing.

 

He would never tell a soul how high the death counter rose in his head with every hit, accounting for every well placed explosion, every bullet, every knife in the back from the shadows. He knows the number of every man and woman whose life he had taken, he didn’t regret their deaths, they were…necessary. John had summed it up nicely when he killed the cabbie, on that very first case;

 

_'But he wasn’t a very nice man was he?’_

 

It was true that they were all criminals, and he had very good reason for taking their lives. But he was a consulting detective, not a judge; he didn’t give out death sentences, he left that to Lestrade, losing interest once the case was solved.

 

As it turned out, he made a very good assassin. He could have done it professionally and been very successful he thought; they’d never have caught him. But it lacked the puzzle element, every case was different, some brilliant, but staring down the scope of a sniper rifle was dull.

 

Despite his sociopathic tendencies, Moriarty was right; he did have a conscience; a heart, and every day he had spent away from John he could feel it burning, turning to ash in his chest.

 

~

 

Due to his hastiness, he inevitably slipped up.

 

He missed a man connected to the drug smuggling group in Indonesia that he had taken out. He was running from the scene, sneaking through alley ways, when he heard shots fired behind him. A bullet embedded itself in his left shoulder (‘John and I will have matching scars’ he thought hysterically through the pain), the agony making him stumble, but he continued to run frantically for the street and his life (John’s life), as another bullet grazed his left bicep.

 

Just as he stepped into the busy street and to safety, the gunman’s third bullet pierced his left thigh from behind. He went down with a tortured cry and blacked out in the street.

 

He escaped the ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ little Indonesian hospital and went looking for the man before he had a chance to act on his knowledge. It was agony; recovering, especially as he refused the temptation of morphine. He could not afford the distraction.

 

He had been relieved that no one recognised the tall (currently French) man with the shaved head and dark stubble. He paid with a wad of Moriarty’s cash, smirking at the irony that the man who sought his death so doggedly, wound up paying to ensure his survival, and no one was any the wiser. But he'd lost 5 weeks, and was cursed with an infuriating limp.

 

 _’John, John, John’_ his mind had taunted him, it’s chanting reminding him of John’s limp until he thought he might be going mad. But with pure determination he worked off most of the limp until it was nearly imperceptible.

 

Then he hunted down the last drug smuggler, Sherlock was merciless in his revenge, and his fury at his own failure made him even more dangerous. He found him with a ruthless glint in his eyes. The man’s face immediately betraying his terror upon recognition, as he attempted to escape Sherlock's wrath.

 

His death had not been kind.

 

At this point there were already whispers of a shadow, too many deaths in the organisation to be coincidence. His actions had not gone unnoticed; they knew someone was hunting them, but they hadn’t an idea who. This had been both a blessing to Sherlock and a very bad development.

 

Using the different group’s paranoia against one another, he turned the two large sections of the web in the States, Chicago and New York against each other by planting ideas of moles and secret take over plans, until they had imploded, destroying one another so effectively that it saved him the trip.

 

The remaining sections were cut off from their finances, and communications were poor between them, travelling slowly, so their intelligence was out of date.

 

But; especially after the news from the US trickled in; the sections begun to band together individually, into tight knit groups, this made infiltration extremely difficult for Sherlock, or whoever he had been at that point...so many names, so many identities, in so many places; was he really himself anymore?

 

~

 

Four months and one stab wound later (courtesy of Moriarty’s second in command, Sebastian Moran, a difficult man to find) Sherlock had nearly completed his mission.

 

He just had one job left to complete, an isolated Serbian militia. They had been stupid Sherlock mused, their security laughable and easy to infiltrate, even though the compound was (or had been, he never asked Mycroft what became of it) in the middle of nowhere.

 

He killed the boss fairly efficiently, recovering some stolen British intelligence (a coming home present for his insufferable brother, to make them even for his help in Sherlock’s ‘death’) and set the timer on the IED he'd spent 2 hours constructing with very little supplies.

 

It had seemed almost too easy. But the bomb had been accidentally discovered by a stray guard before he could make his getaway.

 

Sherlock shuddered at the memory of that dank, musty base; he didn’t like to remember what had happened next.

 

Those twelve days in that Serbian torture chamber had been the most trying and miserable of his life; he briefly reached up and touched his back, feeling the still red and swollen whip lashes that ran the length of his torso, criss-crossing his entire back.

 

They had struck him so many times that he lost count; not stopping even when he passed out.

 

 _‘For John,’_ He reminded himself in every language he knew. He had screamed himself hoarse; the electrocutions and the whipping had been some of the worst.

 

His new-found fear of standing water frustrated him to the extreme, even the shower was difficult to handle without panicking, and he doubted he would ever have a bath again.

 

His humorous had been broken cruelly; the fracture exposing the bone through the skin, thanks to a well-placed strike of a crow bar, he knows it may never completely heal. The bones in his right hand are still going through the healing process, and the callouses on his fingertips that he'd worked so hard to build up had long since receded, leaving him often staring longingly at his violin, wondering if his fingers would ever play it the same way again.

 

He had been both ashamed and so fucking relieved when his brother himself came to extract him, though he didn’t believe it at first, delirious from an infected acid burn on his shoulder blade and questioning why on earth Mycroft Holmes himself would be sent on a simple extraction mission.

 

He would never admit it but he automatically shrank from his brother, indoctrinated fear of touch, as he had released his shackles, lowering his body to the floor gently.  
He remembered feeling completely dissociated at Mycroft rubbing the circulation back into his arms (avoiding the badly set lump on his right)  his muscles burning as they cramped from lack of use.

 

But as his brother had half dragged, half carried him through the compound and out the back door; relief hit him so overwhelmingly strongly that he slipped through Mycroft’s grasp, crumpling onto the cold concrete, 100 metres away from the extraction van.

 

The cool night air felt shocking on his skin, and looking up at the stars shining brilliantly in the open sky was the last thing he remembered from Serbia, collapsing with a tiny smile on his bloodied and bruised face at the thought that somewhere, John was under that same sky, seeing the same light.  
  
  
~  
  
  
He wasn’t sleeping.

 

Sherlock had gotten so used to catnaps here and there, always half alert even when asleep; his ears so attuned to any sound of movement that could be a threat, that now he found it difficult to rest at all. He was utterly exhausted and it showed, he would have been surprised that John hadn’t pestered him yet (god knows how much weight he’d lost, none of his clothes fit him), but then again, John hates him and hadsstarted taking double shifts at the surgery to avoid him.

 

He missees John’s pestering.

  
John’s anger was diminishing a bit, but very slowly. Sherlock just wanted his best friend back, he knew that even if he'd never seen John Watson again (a mysterious painful tightness of his chest at the thought)  that despite everything he had suffered through, every second would have been worth it; for Mrs Hudson’s furious tears, the painful yet somehow comforting hug from Graham, and the simple fact that John Watson was _alive_.

 

Sherlock wanders around the flat, trying to ground himself, to prove that he was finally home. He is; he's made it back, this is real.

 

His legs buckle at the thought and he comes crashing down, bewildered, onto the linoleum of the kitchen floor. He sits in perfect silence as all the emotions he had desperately locked up just to be able to concentrate, allowing him to stay alive over the years burst free, and he feels it.

 

Oh, he feels so much at once; pain, loneliness, fear, and desperation. But he is home, he's safe, John is safe, it is over.

 

He slumps, as silent tears of pain and relief simultaneously fall from his eyes.

 

He remembers John’s smile, the ‘we can’t giggle at a crime scene smile’, his ‘Sherlock you’re an idiot but I don’t mind smile’, and he smiles fondly for a moment. It has been a long time since he’s seen John smile, and he wishes that before John inevitably leaves, he could see that smile just one more time, to know that John was happy and safe; everything he had worked for.

 

Sherlock logically knows that people come back from war different, that no normal human could go through what he had been through and emerge completely whole. But he's never been an ordinary person, and he had not expected the consequences to his mind.

 

Exhausted and shocked at his own sentimentality, Sherlock drags himself to bed before collapsing on the mattress; fully clothed and completely spent.

 

~

 

When sleep finally comes to Sherlock, his dreams haunt him, enemies that were long since dead jump out of the darkness around him; he's back in Serbia, trapped in his cell; bleeding, broken and helpless.

 

Deafening screams swirl around him in a dark cloud, screams of those he has killed and those his captors had torn from his own throat. There is blood, _oh god_ , so much blood, it's all over him, he can taste the iron on his tongue, and it feels like he's drowning in it.

 

An ominous figure marches out of the darkness, his overly tall and broad figure and the steady military gait identify him immediately as Moriarty’s Colonel, the room warping into the empty house where they had finally met.

 

Suddenly behind him, Sebastian Moran whispered his last words directly into his ear as Sherlock rounds on him in panic,trying to get away from his sudden proximity.

 

_‘You are going to die Sherlock Holmes, and this time, I’ll make sure of it. And then? Then I’m going to go after your little pet, I’ll put him down; like a dog, I’ll put him down like Redbeard.’_

 

But in the dream, no matter how many times he lashes out at him; Moran keeps on advancing towards him, his need for revenge shining in his eyes. Sherlock knows this wasn’t how it happened, it was all wrong, but he can’t doing anything to make it stop.

 

He can't stop Moran, Can’t stop John materialising ( _John you can’t be here! Run John!_ ) behind Moran, pleading for Sherlock to save him, eyes wide with terror. He can’t move, he can’t save him, can barely breathe.

 

Sherlock lashes out desperately at Moran, finally succeeding in moving, bringing up his gun to shoot him in the stomach. But Moran just smiles wickedly, fallingto his knees, slumping back against the wall as his face morphs into John’s.

 

John.

 

Now it is John who is dead, not Moran.

 

_No._

 

He shot John. He _shot John_! But John was never meant to be here! He can’t have shot John Watson; he would never hurt John Hamish Watson. But that didn’t change the fact that he has and John still lies there; his breathing harsh, bleeding out, dying.

 

 _'One of the most painful places to get shot is the abdomen,'_ his mind helpfully reminds him.

 

He reaches out, desperately to try and apply pressure, to do anything to stop John’s precious blood pouring out onto the dirty stone floor, but he can’t move, can’t reach John. He stands and watches in abject horror as the life drains from his friends tear streaked and terrified face;

 

“Why Sherlock? Why couldn’t you save me? Why did you let me die?”

 

John’s eyes turn accusatory, which is impossible because he's already dead, but to Sherlock’s horror he continues to stare, as his body begins to rot and decay at an accelerated rate, right before his eyes. Half of his face falls away in chunks to expose his skull and teeth beneath, the other side melting like plastic down from his eye socket, yet he still mocks him;

 

“You _failed_ me Sherlock, all your work was for nothing. You killed me! John Watson is dead.”

 

~

 

Sherlock snaps awake into a sitting position with a silent scream on his lips, and legs tangled in sweat soaked, expensive sheets, he spends several minutes panting as he desperately tries to calm himself down.

 

His logical mind is well aware that he is safe, that he had been experiencing a nightmare, but his body, his transport betraying his fear, had gone into full fight or flight mode, adrenaline and cortisol flooding his nervous system, brain demanding extra oxygen to deal with the impending threat.

 

It takes several minutes to slow his breathing to an acceptable rate, before he slumps back to the pillows.

 

Briefly revisiting the nightmare before locking it away in his mind palace, he shudders, it wasn’t the first bad dream that he’s had since he returned, but it was definitely the worse.

 

This was awful, awful and illogical. He is safe; he has succeeded in destroying the threat, but still he can’t think with this constant tiredness and distraction cause by his dreams. He certainly wasn’t going to get anymore sleep tonight.

 

How had John coped with the nightmares? Sherlock knows that he stopped having them shortly after moving in to 221B,  and though Sherlock secretly suspected that his night-time impromptu violin concerts may have been helpful, that was not an option for him, considering the state of his mangled hand, and that couldn’t have been it entirely.

 

 _'How does John cope with anything?'_ He wonders, until out of the darkness, the idea comes to him as a light, he smiles.

 

John is still his conductor of light even dulled at a distance. His idea itself wouldn’t be enough but surely added to a stimulus or activity he could increase the results? What was a study of an unvisited, pedestrian subject; that could be of help? A subject that was just purely John?

 

He frowns, for a moment before an idea comes to him. Yes! That was it! Throwing off his sheet; he marches straight to the kitchen in his pyjamas to begin his experiment.

 

~

 

John had spoken to Greg over a couple of pints in their local, it had seemed Greg had easily forgiven Sherlock, repairing their working relationship, and Sherlock had solved the best eleven cold case murders the Yard had in 5 days.

 

But he refused to come to crime sceness, and Greg was worried (John was shocked that Lestrade still had the capacity to worry through his anger) and he was worried about Sherlock.

 

Lestrade said something about the detective felt ‘off’ somehow, with a shrug. He urges John to spend time with him, to try and fix things with Sherlock;

 

“He’s better with you,” He shrugs.

 

~

 

John woke feeling slightly shaken and tired, a bit worse for wear, having not gotten much sleep the night before. He had been creeping through the flat at 3am, grumpily cursing himself for letting Greg talk him into having that last pint; he had work the next day and should be sleeping, but god he needed to piss.

 

He slipped into the bathroom, and just as he is washing his hands, preparing to leave he hears a noise, turning to see that the frosted glass ensuite to Sherlock’s room was ajar.

 

He'd battles with himself for several seconds, because despite the man’s disregard of privacy, John couldn’t remember being in the room more than a handful of times. Unlike Sherlock, John does have a sense of respect for the privacy of others, but the faint noises have peaked his curiosity, and he pushes the door open a little.

 

He's very surprised to find his flatmate tangled, fully clothed in his posh sheets, shifting and twitching whilst constantly murmuring under his breath in a language that sounded vaguely Slavic, his face contorted in pain. John silently backs away as quickly as he can and struggles to get to sleep, pondering, what could cause ‘the great’ Sherlock Holmes to have something as pedestrian and normal as a nightmare?

 

So going downstairs that morning, tired and wanting nothing else but to nurse his burgeoning headache with a nice cuppa before work, he stops entirely in his tracks at the current state of the living room, his jaw hanging open in disbelief.

 

On the coffee table was what he assumed was every single mug they owned, or close to it, each filled to various levels of mostly drunk tea, and not just any tea, _his favourite tea_.

 

The wall above the fireplace is absolutely plastered in papers and photos, and looking closer; he blinks and rubs his eyes to check he isn’t dreaming. Because all of the papers are star charts with detailed notes and close up pictures. Squinting faintly, John sees that Sherlock has written the name of every star and traced around each constellation laboriously.

 

He just stands there; dumbstruck, in the middle of his own living room, staring lamely at the couch, which is covered in pages of notes in Sherlock’s handwritten scrawl, and astronomy books that looked so old and complicated that he wouldn’t have touched them with a ten foot pole.

 

He is too surprised at the familiarity of the chaos, despite not having seen Sherlock act like this for a very long time, to be even remotely annoyed that he probably wouldn’t get his morning tea after-all.

 

At that moment Sherlock makes an appearance, crashing manically through the kitchen doors, balancing two cups of tea, which look suspiciously like they should have been in Mrs Hudson’s flat, and throwing himself on the couch, spilling a large amount of tea in the process of trying to force his nose into one of the books as quickly as humanly possible.

 

“Sherlock, what-“

 

“It’s the solar system, John! Stars in particular, did you know that the light from the sun travels 150 million kilometres at a speed of 300 000 kilometres per second to reach the Earth in 8 minutes?!  
The light from the stars, created by nuclear fusion, takes millions of years to reach our eyes, meaning the star may be long dead before we even see it, like a window into the past, John!"

 

John blinks at him blankly which apparently encourages Sherlock to babble further.

 

"There are approximately 300 billion of them,stars that is, just in our galaxy alone, hundreds of light years away. Light years is a term that refers to distance not time, we just call it years, it’s stupid, I don’t know why.”

 

Sherlock is talking so fast it's hard to even follow him, never mind take in what he was saying properly.

 

“So when people say something was 2 light years away; they are thinking about the time to get there when really they have said the object is 19 trillion kilometres away. (If the object is travelling at the speed of light, the time it would take to travel 2 light years at the speed of light is actually approximately 2 years, or 17520 hours.)”

 

Sherlock’s hands gesticulate wildly as he spins around the room, making small marks on a chart or in a book, without even breaking his train of thought, continuing his tirade. John, feels like his crazy flatmate is just vomiting star facts at him for no discernible reason. Oh right, that was exactly what he's doing.

 

It's far too early in the morning for this.

 

“The mistake people make is in thinking in regards to something else they relate to that isn’t light.Because idiots forget that ONLY light can travel that fast hence why it is a called the damn speed of light for god’s sake. A light year, it is the amount of distance light can travel, when moving at its top speed, in one of our years, not people."

 

"For example if I were to walk at 8 kilometres per hour for a distance of two light years it would take me 270 002 717 years.”

 

John rubs his forehead, his headache definitely not getting any better.

 

Suddenly Sherlock switches the topic from stars, the words running into each other like nothing had changed, no way to get a word in edgeways;

 

“There are 8 planets in our solar system, (with Jupiter being the largest) orbiting our own star, although there has been debate over whether a dwarf planet, Pluto, should be considered the ninth.”

 

John wonders if Sherlock will finally stop to take a breath, or if he's just going to pass out on the carpet from oxygen deprivation, either way, he's hoping that he's almost done, but the blur of words becomes about stars again;

 

“Constellations of stars are the most ridiculous construction, they don’t exist, they are a figment of human imagination. They don’t even look remotely as they are supposed to, I mean honestly, there is no way that is a dolphin, and if you ask me; Orion is definitely upside-down."

 

He flops on his back onto the sofa, papers fluttering everywhere.

 

“There are 88 of them," Sherlock begins, and oh god, he's going to list them, isn't he? " Andromeda, Antlia, Apus, Aquarius, Aquila, Ara, Aries, Auriga, Boötes-”

 

“Sherlock!” John shouts, finally finding his voice and putting an end to the worst astronomy lesson of all time.

 

His flatmate looks up; his eyes bright from too much tea and too little sleep, completely unaware that he has been doing anything out of the ordinary.

 

They stare at each other across the living room for a moment, and it's just so much like the olden days; his madman of a flatmate, doing crazy experiments and chasing criminals through the streets of London, anything to keep him from being bored.

 

This is so removed from this new quiet Sherlock, who tip-toes around John's anger and didn’t do, well, much of anything really. Except trying to learn everything about stars at once it seemed.

 

But in this moment, in Baker Street; in his dressing gown at six in the morning, surrounded by more maps and astronomy books than a small library, the absurdity of the situation hits him in a familiar way, and he starts chucking, and laughing, shaking his head in amused disbelief at the madness that is his life.

 

When he has a hold of himself he looks up to see Sherlock cross legged on the couch, beaming at him like…like he hadn’t seen him in two years.

 

Oh. Right.

 

Clears his throat as his smile quickly falls from his face, Sherlock’s own delighted grin fading slowly in response. The detective’s features reorganise almost successfully into his usual mask, but there is still something maudlin in his expression that makes John look away pointedly, something twisting in his chest.

 

He turns away, getting ready for work hurriedly, giving Sherlock a small, awkward nod as he leaves for the day, feeling a pair of piercing blue eyes follow him all the way out of the flat, but he pauses on the threshold, a surge of pettiness overtaking him as he yells back over his shoulder,

 

"Pluto is a goddamn planet!"

 

~

 

John runs into Mrs Hudson on his way out, her hand grasping his arm with an oddly strong physicality for a woman her age, with his usual call of;

 

“Later, Mrs Hudson! Off to work, no time to chat,” dying on his lips as he sees the serious look on her face and feels the strength of her grip.

 

“How is he John, really?” She asks, lowering her voice, with a meaningful glance up the stairs as if the consulting detective could hear them.

 

“Well, you know, he’s Sherlock,” he shrugs without giving it much thought.

 

“Oh, but John, I worry about him, it’s so quiet up there now, there’s no shouting or running about, no bodies in the fridge (not that I miss that bit at all mind), but it’s like he’s not even there John.” She grips his arm tighter.

 

“Like he never came back at all,” She whispers, her eyes reflecting the fear that John felt every morning in the first few weeks after Sherlock’s fall, where he had come down stairs in the morning expecting to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, only to find an empty flat.

 

“I have to go upstairs to remind myself sometimes that he’s really here. It’s a miracle, my boys back here again after everything…But look at the state of him John,” her voice becomes slightly accusatory, “You need to take care of each other better,” she insisted, as though Sherlock wasn’t a grown man, perfectly (well perhaps not perfectly) able to look after himself.

 

“He's all skin and bones, and with all the sneaking out in the middle of the night, it’s a wonder the poor man hasn’t collapsed with exhaustion!”Mrs Hudson shakes her head in fond frustration for Sherlock, releasing his arm, and John wonders that he seems to be the only one holding Sherlock accountable for his lies.

 

“He seemed to manage just fine on his own for two years,” he mutters bitterly only to receive a hard jab from Mrs Hudson’s finger in his chest.

  
“Now you listen to me, John Watson, anyone can see that that boy is suffering. I don’t know why he did what he did, but I know in my heart that he never would have done it without good reason. So you need to stop this petty grudge of yours.” (‘Petty?’ It was far more than a petty grudge to John.) “We have him back John, that’s more than most people get.”

 

John hangs his head, feeling oddly chastised by the disappointed mothering quality of Mrs Hudson’s words that seems to extend to influencing full grown men. He abruptly back-peddles, remembering something she’d said earlier.

 

“What did you say about Sherlock sneaking out at night?” He asks curiously.

 

“Oh, yes, it struck me as strange. My hip’s causing me problems again, damn thing, stops me from sleeping sometimes, you know, and I hear him. In the middle of the night, leaving the flat at ungodly hours and waking me up when he comes creeping in just before dawn. Silly boy, staying out all night like that, he’ll catch his death of cold.” She explained, not noticing her own double entendre, as she patted his arm and said her farewell’s, satisfied that she’d gotten her point across as she shuffled back into 221A.

 

~

 

It was the things that he had done; the things that he had caused and seen, that made him refuse to give John any details of his time away. He would not lose John Watson, not again, not when he had only just gotten him back in his life.

He still waited for John to leave him, one wrong word and John could leave him forever, if John knew the things he had done, the… monster, the psychopath he had finally become, he was sure he would never see his face again, John would be disgusted, horrified. Everyone had finally been proven right about him; Sally had predicted it perfectly;

“One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will have put it there.”

She would never know how right she had been, it would have been no surprise to her. She was a competent police officer, though he’d never tell her, she saw who he was, who he would be. She had expertly followed Moriarty’s subtle trail of lies, had the bravery to doubt him, to put the clues together and present her case.  
He almost respected her for that, almost.

She had been duped by Moriarty’s so called ‘hard evidence’, the idea planted it her head, spreading like poison, as she had meant to be. But then she was hardly a match for the consulting criminal, and neither had he been, in the end. He’d lost.

But John; John had always believed in him, and he didn’t want to see the disappointment, the fear on his face as he realised what his friend had become, he could take it from Sally, he expected no more of her, but he couldn’t take that hatred from John.  
Not when John had been the one person to really see him, to stay.

He had become aware that he didn’t want to be without the man who had once considered him his best friend, his conductor of light. He couldn’t go back to the part of his life mentally titled ‘before John’, he couldn’t leave him behind.  
Not again, not after all of this pain.

He wasn’t quite sure why John’s pain hurt him so deeply, emotions were not exactly his ‘area’, but it wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t go away, the guilt that he had caused John to be hurt whilst trying (and succeeding, mind) to save his life bubbled hot through his veins.  
Had he not done the right thing? Had he not saved three lives? It didn’t seem fair that although his sin’s had been done, that he still must play the part of the devil when he had expected a triumphant return.

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told John about the snipers on the roof, about the whole reason why he had to take his dramatic fall, like Lucifer from heaven, John would not know the things he had done in his name. He could not use the words to manipulate John’s forgiveness for him, no matter how he wanted to, oh how he did, he felt like it was cheating somehow.

  
  
The tension in the flat refused to go away and he held his breath every time John walked out of the flat, it felt like his chest compressed and that he had been holding that same breath each time, until John returned and he sagged with relief, air rushing from his screaming lungs.

He found himself yearning for that easy familiarity and companionship they had once shared, once, so long ago.  
The slight accidental brushes of skin that had ceased to be an annoyance, and instead a comfort, those ridiculous movie nights where he would rip the plotlines apart with his deductions, spread out on the sofa, his bare feet deposited on John’s lap (something that John, curiously, accepted without comment).  
His smug delight when John stopped telling Sherlock to, _‘shut it, and let me watch the film, you git’_ , and instead laughed and said, _‘go on what’s going to happen next then, if you’re so clever?’_ He always got it right, well mostly, and even found himself throwing in ridiculously false claims just to make John laugh.  
  
He longed for John’s cool Doctor’s touch, as if he could somehow sooth his long since healed wounds, take away all the pain that he had suffered, to suture, bandage and heal, to run his hands through Sherlock’s hair and put his mind palace right again, conducting that spark of light back into his head, his life. John’s light still seemed very far away at times.  
  
In his dreams while he was away, John came to him, shining blindingly bright, like a beacon as he peeled the scars from Sherlock’s body, whispering, _‘you won’t be needing those anymore,’_ reaching his hand out for Sherlock to take, pulling him up and into the flat they shared, to 221B Baker Street. Dream John wrapped his strong arms around Sherlock in a soothing embrace,  
_‘Welcome home,_ ’ he would whisper, and when Sherlock woke, he would pretend that he didn’t notice the lingering wetness on his cheeks.  
  
  
Now he was finally home, it was nothing like he’d longed for, John was right in front of him, but completely out of his reach, and his dreams now were darker, and more gruesome, like someone had turned off all the lights in his mind. Sherlock had never been frightened of the dark, but now he felt lonely with the absence of light.  
  
It appeared that he really was lost without his blogger.

 

~

 

John was distracted at work, his mind turning over and over what Mrs Hudson had said to him that morning. He spent twice the time on each patient, getting far behind on his schedule as he thought back.  
He admittedly hadn’t been paying much attention to Sherlock recently, but he thought that was fair, given that he hadn’t really been able to look at the detective without all the feelings of anger and betrayal bubbling up to the surface.

But if he really thought about it, Sherlock had looked thinner than before, skeletal even, the weight he’d lost accentuated by his tall frame. He tried to recall if he’d ever really seen any evidence of Sherlock actually having slept since his return, apart from that one time he caught him in the midst of a bad dream, and his mind came up blank.  
Taking his nightly escapades into consideration, the time that he calculated that Sherlock had spent sleeping in the last two weeks was somewhere (on a very scientific and precise scale) between ‘not a whole damn lot’ and ‘fuck all’.

Eventually, after he’d spent 9 minutes staring off into space after bandaging the wrist of a bored 12 year old without dismissing him, Sarah came in to find out why the hell she had a waiting room full of untreated and angry patients.  
Seeing that John was clearly not focussed on work today Sarah sighed, rolling her eyes fondly and told him to take the afternoon off.  
Considering the amount of extra hours he’d pulled and shifts he’d covered recently, she was in a lenient mood with him, and gave him a push towards the exit letting him go with a;

“You’re lucky I like you, Doctor Watson,” and a friendly wink before she turned back to the rest of the chaos that had formed in the clinic waiting room.

He left work and wandered around Regents Park for a while, nothing else to do with the rest of his day. Eventually his mind wandered back to Sherlock and he grimaced, all things in his life seemed to lead down that road. He was following him in his mind now, instead of through dirty alley-ways, up fire escapes and all over the streets of London. There was much less satisfaction and adrenaline this way. He found himself missing the cases and the rush that came with them, just John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, consulting detectives, the two of them together; against the rest of the world.

 

~

 

As he left the entrance to the park, not wanting to return to the suffocating atmosphere of the flat just yet, but unsure what to do with himself, a familiar black car pulled up in front of him.  
He sighed, and debated ignoring Mycroft’s minions, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the car would simply follow him until he tested the British Government’s patience and his goons forced the issue.

He hadn’t seen or been kidnapped by Sherlock’s ponce of and older brother since the funeral. They hadn’t really been on the best of terms since John had broken the other man’s nose when he tried to approach him at Sherlock’s grave after the ceremony.  
It had been a satisfying sight to see Mycroft Holmes yelp in surprise as blood spurted from his nostrils; it was worth it, even though the man had had to intervene to stop his muscly entourage from killing him where he stood.  
Sherlock would have loved to see it.  
  
Eventually he gave up and climbed into the damn car, wondering on a scale of 1-10 how much he was going to regret this trip.  
To his great surprise, when he climbed in the back of the car, he came face to face with Sherlock’s brother himself, no dramatics or coat and dagger stuff, he had come himself, this was never a good sign.  
  
“Doctor,” Mycroft acknowledged coldly, without his usual attempt at sarcastic pleasantries.  
There was something, just visible under his iron mask that John didn’t like. He had never been afraid of Sherlock’s brother in his life, but right now he wasn’t sure. Because there was anger there so strong that it forced itself through a Holmesian mask.  
Mycroft Holmes was furious, and he was furious at John, far too much to be a grudge over a broken nose.

In fact at the time, Mycroft had not retaliated against John’s violence, he had simply accepted it. Maybe he thought it was his penance for betraying his brother, some twisted feeling of responsibility for John’s pain, he could never be sure, but Mycroft had left him alone after that. Although he never doubted that he was keeping an eye on him, even two years after his brother’s death.

 

  
“Mycroft,” John replied gruffly, back straight, his hand was perfectly still, no sign of a tremor at all, “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked sarcastically, feeling slightly victorious at seeing Mycroft bristle in response.  
The elder man eyed John dangerously for a moment in contemplation before clasping his hands in his lap and facing forward away from John, talking to the back of the seat in front of him.

“I wish to discuss your recent ill treatment of my brother.” He stated calmly. John’s eyes widened in disbelief at his nerve.

“Ill treatment?! You came here to threaten me for being angry at Sherlock? After the bastard went and played dead for two years leaving us behind? What right do you have to tell me how to feel? You didn’t see him kill himself right in front of you! I bet you didn’t have to grieve at all, you knew all along, didn’t you?” John realised, already regretting getting into the damn car, and the conversation had barely begun.

“Sherlock has returned from the dead, after your initial expected (but not in any way condoned) physical violence to my brother, you have had plenty of time to discuss my brother’s…theatrics, and reconcile with one another, and yet you insist to continue to hold his actions against him and punish him for it."

"I am  losing my patience with the hurt you are causing my brother, the only reason that I continue to allow you to be in his presence is the fact that he needs you. Come now, John, there is no point in denying it, he needs you” he cut off John’s protests just before he could voice them.  
‘We both know that it is true,” Mycroft continued, unfazed;

“If he did not, I would have it arranged,” His voice became dangerous again, and John forced himself not to shudder.  
“That you never set eyes or lay a finger on my brother again as long as you live. If you were any other person, Doctor Watson, causing Sherlock this much pain, I assure you, you would never see the light of day again. However, I owe you a certain amount of gratitude for supporting my brother when I could not, but do not underestimate the lengths to which I am willing to go to protect him.”

John didn’t doubt him for a second, he knew Mycroft had the power and the coldness to go through with it, so he said nothing and let him finish.

“However, as it stands at the moment; my brother appears to have formed a… attachment of sorts to you, which both he and I once assumed was mutual. So, when he clearly needs you the most, you continue to cruelly turn him away, I am curious as to why.”  
  
John blinked in surprise, searching Mycroft’s face to see if he was being facetious but all he saw there was honest curiosity and sharp anger. John didn’t understand Mycroft’s inability to understand his anger; everyone knew why he was angry; it was damn obvious in fact, it wasn’t everyday your Best friend fakes suicide and then shows up in your flat.

 

 

 

Mycroft Holmes was certainly not an idiot, people had probably died for just thinking it, but unlike Sherlock, Mycroft did understand human nature.  
There was something wrong with this picture, which he just couldn’t see, but Mycroft’s insinuations that it was him at fault, despite his reluctance to antagonise the man further, (he knew he was on a knife edge right now), still made him really fucking pissed off.

“Oh he needs me does he? Where was he when I needed him, huh? When I though he was dead? When I grieved for him?” John was shaking with emotion, his voice rising in volume with every word,  
  
“He destroyed my life and then comes waltzing back, large as bloody life and expects everything to go back to normal, like nothing ever happened, so why the hell, tell me this Mycroft, because I don’t understand, shouldn’t I be angry?”

Mycroft stared at him for a moment as if he had gone completely insane, then slowly and seriously he asked,  
“What, exactly, has my brother revealed to you about his reasons for his fictitious suicide and the events that happened after?” He spoke, with concern and trepidation, as if he already knew the answer, but was hoping for once in his life, that he was incorrect.  
  
John hesitated, Mycroft wasn’t angry anymore, if anything he seemed…tired? He didn’t understand the sudden change in the conversation’s tone, he felt completely out of the loop and he didn’t like it one bit.

“Mycroft, what the hell is going on? He told me that he went to ‘take down Moriarty’s web, (his words not mine) and something about having to act straight away before someone else took charge. That’s it. It doesn’t explain a sodding thing if you ask me.”

Mycroft Holmes sighed deeply, running a hand over his face,

  
“Oh Sherlock, you idiot,” he whispered, chastising his brother while simultaneously managing to sound sympathetic, with a kind note to his voice that John had never heard the likes of from the elder Holmes, and likely never would again.  
John thought he might be one of the few people who had seen the man like this, so open.

Shaking his head, Mycroft snapped back to himself once again, turning towards John in a meaningful way that spoke of the importance of what he was about to say, John, attentive but wary in response.  
“It seems that my brother has neglected to tell you the full story regarding his ploy,” Mycroft began, and John almost interrupted to snap Sherlock’s trademark line of ‘Obviously’, but he stopped, warned himself to be patient because he may be about to finally get some answers.

“Perhaps he never considered it the right time (which I find unlikely), perhaps he thought an explanation unimportant (an equally improbable reason), perhaps he thought you would come around on your own and chose to wait out your anger. It is possible that he thought in not telling you, he was doing a sort of penance for your suffering ( _‘he does love to be dramatic’_ echoed through John’s mind numbly) or it could be a mixture of several of those reasons, or none at all. Goodness knows what my brother may be thinking, especially now.”

John was slightly worried at the ‘especially now’ comment, but he wouldn’t dare interrupt Mycroft now, he had to admit, he was absolutely hanging on Mycroft’s every word, whilst the car drove in a seemingly random (but was probably calculated down to every turn) pattern through London’s streets.

“I am not certain that I have Sherlock’s blessing to reveal this information, but under the circumstances, it seems that I have no choice, even if he resents me for it. I fear that if I do not, Sherlock’s health will continue to deteriorate, and that is unacceptable.” Mycroft paused, taking a deep breath as if preparing to take a plunge into a cold swimming pool, and John shifted impatiently in his seat.

 

“That day, on the roof of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, Sherlock invited James Moriarty to join him on the roof to solve what the self-dubbed ‘Consulting criminal’ had called the final problem. Which, it turned out, to be staying alive, who would live and who would die. Sherlock had expected the meeting would end in his death, and I assisted him in preparing for every eventuality to ensure that he would survive if the need had arisen.”  
John felt cold, trying to process the flood of information; Moriarty was on the roof, it was _Sherlock_ who arranged to meet Moriarty, that’s why he had sent him away. Leaving him alone to face the most dangerous man they had ever met, who was hell bent on the destruction of Sherlock Holmes. He should have been there; they should have faced him together.

  
“But Moriarty played my brother like a pawn,” Mycroft continued, face twisting in distaste and John’s gritted his teeth in apprehension;

“He had an endgame that neither of us had predicted. He had three of the world’s top snipers with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and you, constantly in their sights. If Sherlock had not been seen to kill himself, confirm the presses lies, die a fraud and remain dead, then the only three people that Sherlock cared for in the world would die instantly."

  
"Moriarty had promise Sherlock a fall, a fall from grace. Sherlock had been prepared to give him one, literally, and fake his demise, but he had not anticipated this, and I must admit, nor had it occurred to me, although it certainly should have,” He added bitterly.

“My brother knew he could force Moriarty to recall the snipers, and Moriarty knew it too, apparently, as he was willing to go much further than we ever expected to ensure that never happened,”  
Mycroft confessed, angry at himself for his inability to predict the unpredictable actions of a madman.

 

“James Moriarty shot himself through the mouth and into the brainstem. He is confirmed dead,there is no questioning it, I had my best people ensure it.  
But; with no way to prevent the snipers from firing, my brother had no choice but to go through with his fictitious suicide.”

 

John had frozen in his seat, staring at Mycroft with wide eyes. Moriarty: dead, the snipers, _oh god_. He was breathing hard, desperately trying to wrap his brain around everything. Sherlock had jumped to protect them, to protect _him_ , to _save his life_ , all their lives.

“But…no, wait. So he faked his death, he fooled the…the snipers yeah?” He stuttered, trying to put his thoughts into words, despite the overwhelming dizziness at the shock.  
His brain trying to process the information and form words at the same time, which was apparently too much for him right now, god this car ride had gone downhill so damn quickly.

“So, if the snipers thought he was dead, it was over. He would have been able to come back!” John frowned at the implications and the contradictions;  
why would Sherlock save his life only to lie about being dead for two years? That couldn’t be right, could it? Nothing in this conversation made remotely any sense to John, it was a fucking lot to drop on someone, and he was having trouble processing it all.

Mycroft huffed in the same way that Sherlock did when John was being an idiot (‘ _it’s practically transparent John!_ ’), and shook his head pointedly as if correcting a small child.

“You know James Moriarty better than that, Doctor, his back up plans have back up plans. A sniper’s contract doesn’t end that easily. If at any time, even years later, Sherlock was found to be alive, they would fulfil their contract, as a matter of integrity.  
An assassin who does not fulfil his contract would lose his or her reputation and may never be hired again; they are paid not to miss.”  
  
John decided that he didn’t want to know how Mycroft knew about that last bit, but he wasn’t at all surprised that he did, it was probably part of the job description.

“My brother had to go into hiding until the snipers were dealt with, unfortunately it wasn’t as simple as just taking out the original snipers, there were undoubtedly back ups and others who would take their place should they become compromised. As I said, James Moriarty’s plans were well thought out and made in great detail. We had no idea which people in the organisation were involved; it could have been all of them. If any one of them discovered that he was alive, it could mean the death of the three of you and certainly Sherlock as well.”

“Oh god,” John exclaimed in horror, “ _fucking hell_.”

“Quite,” agreed Mycroft, “please believe me Doctor Watson, when I say that Sherlock felt that he had no choice but to leave to tackle the network, and despite how he wanted to, he could not breathe a word of it to you or anyone else.  
It was cruel and he hated it, but he had to let you grieve otherwise no one would have believed it. All eyes were on you, and we both know that your acting skills are not quite up to par.”

John forced himself to push down the irritation at Mycroft’s last snarky comment, he had to reluctantly admit, that the man had a point.  
The hurt at being lied to and left behind still stung, and probably always would, but now his anger shifted, no longer directing itself at his best friend, but towards the consulting criminal who had ripped their world apart, wishing that it had been him to end the life of James Moriarty.

“He never intended for it to take so long, but Moriarty’s network was vast to say the least.”

Suddenly the reality of the situation hit him like a truck, his chest tightened and he took slow breaths, desperately trying to hold himself together as he felt his eyes starting to feel watery. He would not cry, he would not cry in front of Mycroft Holmes.  
He opened his mouth to speak but was mortified when all that escaped him was a dry choked sob.

Mycroft sat patiently, he was looking at John with that quiet calculating look that always unnerved John slightly, but his face was not unkind.

“He…I- he did it to save my life, and I… I hated him for it. The way I treated him Mycroft, after what he’d done for me…” John shook his head unable to finish, his head bowed. He wished the last two years would just go away; go back to whatever hell they came from.  
He wanted time to reverse and go back, to before the fall, before Moriarty came into their lives, back to the start, when it was just John and Sherlock drinking copious amount of tea and galloping around the city because the game was on.

 

Mycroft cleared his throat, slightly uncomfortable at such a blatant show of emotion. The noise pulled John from his guilty, self-depreciating thoughts (he had made a right mess of the situation and god he hoped he could fix it) and it seemed the conversation was winding up.

“Forgive me for making assumptions, but after receiving this information, you shall attempt to reconcile with my brother, correct?” John managed a dazed nod, of course he would, the truth was despite his anger, he had missed his friend terribly, and he should have attempted to forgive him long ago, if only he’d known…

  
“In that case, I have some information that you may need. Sherlock likely will not thank me for supplying it to you, but I deem it necessary, Doctor, if you are to be caring for him once more."  
"This," he explained, pulling a thin innocuous and generic looking beige folder, seemingly from nowhere in pure Mycroft fashion,

“Is Sherlock’s medical file when he was debriefed in a hospital in Germany after finishing his mission in remote Serbia. It records a full medical history of Sherlock’s health in the missing two years. It is entirely your choice to consider if you wish to read the file or not, but I hope it may assist you in some way.”

John eyed the outstretched file with thinly veiled suspicion, contemplating it before taking it, deliberately leaving it closed as he tucked it into his work bag. Mycroft nodded and bade him farewell, John hadn’t even noticed they had arrived at 221B until the car pulled to a stop.  
He got out of the car, watching it immediately drive off, and glanced at his watch, he’d been driving around in that damn car for three hours!

Narrowing his eyes he realised that Mycroft had somehow timed the conversation so that John arrived home at the same time he usually did after work. He wasn’t sure how the posh git had managed it, but it just made him feel more like a damn pawn. The corner of John’s mouth twitched in amusement at the thought of Mycroft trying to find exactly the right route, practising his speech to end it just at the right moment by talking to himself.

Until he turned back to gaze at the gold 221 glinting in the middle of the black door and his face fell. Once familiar, the door to the flat now looked ominous, as he gathered himself (before entering his own home which was absurd in its own) and let himself in.

It was time to face Sherlock Holmes

 

~

 

John trumped up the 17 stairs to the flat on autopilot, his muscle memory unconsciously avoiding the creak on the 11th stair.  
The climb seemed slower and more difficult than usual, his legs dragging, but all the same he reached the top far too soon for his liking.

The conversation with Mycroft had been overwhelming to say the least, and he hadn’t the faintest idea of what he was going to say to Sherlock.

  
So upon entering the flat, he offered a gruff greeting to Sherlock, as had become usual, and trying to remain the veneer of normality, dumped his bag on the floor next to the coat rack and toeing off his shoes; shuffled into the kitchen to prepare the tea.

Sherlock looked up from his thinking position, curled up impossibly small on his leather armchair, with his knees pulled tightly to his chest and ‘hmmed’ vaguely in response.  
John had never understood how some of the positions that his flatmate got himself into could possibly be comfortable for a grown man, but it seemed to work for him. The lanky bastard must be half-cat or something, John thought, shaking his head in mild amusement.

 

  
  
Sherlock returned to his thinking pose, which allowed John to get a real look at him, to truly observe Sherlock Holmes for the first time.  
Everyone hadn’t been exaggerating when they’d said he looked rough. He’d lost so much weight that he looked gaunt, much worse than John ever remembered, his skin appeared paper thin.

The dark circles around his eyes were very telling, confirming John’s earlier assumptions that he hadn’t been sleeping, which probably had something to do with the nightmare he had witnessed. God, that night seemed so long ago, when really it had only been a few days, his perspective had changed so much since then.

Mycroft had hinted that Sherlock had been injured and he swept him over with a doctor’s eye, the man was sitting slightly off centre so that most of his back didn’t come in contact with the back of the chair, instead of comfortably sitting back as he would have before, maybe it was stiff, he wasn’t sure. John may be a doctor (and a damn good one at that) but he didn’t have Sherlock’s powers of deductive reasoning on his side.

However he immediately saw that there was something wrong about Sherlock’s right arm, it seemed weaker than the left, propped up on his knee instead of supporting its own weight. Looking back in his memory for clues, he realised that being a doctor, he had subconsciously noticed that Sherlock had been favouring his left arm.  
  
Come to think of it, his friend had been just generally stiff in his movements, instead of flowing smoothly through the world with his usual enviable grace. God, why hadn’t he noticed all this before? _‘You did,_ ' his mind reminded him, painfully honest, ' _you just didn’t care enough to look deeper.’_  
He closed his eyes tightly for a moment in regret, what sort of Doctor was he that he’d let his anger get in the way of his Hippocratic Oath?  
  
He realised that his moment of stillness had lasted just a second too long, and spinning around to get on with the tea, he could feel Sherlock’s eyes on his back, interest peaked, flickering from side to side, deducing John’s day. Not yet ready to face the discussion of Mycroft’s revelations just yet, he clung on to the pretence that everything was normal, setting down their tea and dropping himself down into his chair with a sigh.  
He avoided Sherlock’s suspicious gaze by picking up the closest newspaper and trying to read its contents distractedly.  
  
He knew that Sherlock would have definitely deduced that he had spoken to Mycroft by now, probably before he’d even entered the flat, but he was pretty sure that he could only guess at the words spoken, how much Mycroft had told him, even if the subject was pretty obviously about Sherlock.

John knew Sherlock was probably frustrated by being out of the loop and anxious to know what his brother had said, but their companionship was fragile right now, and he wasn’t sure how to begin, so he resigned himself to waiting until Sherlock’s curiosity finally got the better of him. As it turned out that John didn’t have to wait long until Sherlock’s thin restraint broke.

“Out with it,” Sherlock snapped, breaking the tense silence of 221B,  
“What did my brother have to say?”

Looking up over his paper, John took a sip of tea, going for nonchalance and not quite pulling it off enough to hide his anxiety,

“What makes you think I’ve spoken to Mycroft?” John asked, as calmly as he was able whilst under Sherlock’s intense scrutiny.  
Sherlock scoffed, as if the answer was obvious (and to him it probably was), John felt a mild excitement bubbling as Sherlock scowled and opened his mouth, to be honest John had missed listening to Sherlock’s deductions, even if they were directed at him.

 

“You intended to go to work this morning, you took your bag and your work shoes, bad for walking, so you only wear them to work. Not an intended deception, you don’t consciously choose them. You did go to work in the morning, you didn’t call in sick, I would have heard you if you’d done so here, plus there are some new patient forms sticking out of your bag, unfinished paper work, to complete at home.”  
  
“Besides you smell of the clinics particular brand of disinfectant, but not strong enough to have just come from there, so you left just before lunch. No crumbs on your jacket, you didn’t have time to pick something up.  
There is a stain of mud and grass on your shoes, indicating you were in a park, but you are not sweating or covered in the smell or evidence of standing close to a crowd of people, as is unavoidable when catching the tube, so you either took a taxi (unlikely due to your concerns of expense) or were picked up in a car that reeks of mint air-freshener, the same one my Brother uses in all of his cars; practically elementary Doctor.”

“Besides you haven’t read a word of that newspaper you’re holding, if you had, you’d notice that you read it cover to cover yesterday morning. So you have been to see my brother and as a result are distracted, so the topic of the conversation (undoubtedly something to do with myself, _no don’t look at me like that_ , you haven’t anything else in common, unless you have suddenly gained an interest in secret politics, which I find unlikely) was important.”  
Sherlock paused in his tirade to contemplate John, as if dissecting his expression with him mind, which he almost certainly was.  
  
“Did I get anything wrong?” He asked doubtfully, confident in his abilities to the end.  
  
“Er, no. No you didn’t, that was entirely right. It was, well, amazing.”  
John couldn’t help the praise slipping out of his mouth, turning his head away from Sherlock’s confused stare, with an awkward cough, embarrassed by the slip, a remnant of the past.

‘Well it _was_ amazing,” his mind acknowledged, justifying his words, but maybe it had been too much, too fast as Sherlock blinked at him in surprise, confused by John’s emotional 180⁰. He was acting as if the words of praise, were foreign to his ears, and entirely unexpected, which, to be perfectly honest, they probably were after so long.

Sherlock’s brain seemed to come back online after a few seconds pause and his expression became cold again, “So, I ask you again, what, was it that my brother wanted?”

  
  
“Well, he initially threatened me not to hurt you, but...” He quickly continued as Sherlock’s expression darkened, “Then he told me why. He told me why you jumped, why you faked your suicide, why you pretended that you were dead for two years.”

Once glance at his friend showed that Sherlock had frozen, staring unseeingly straight ahead. It appeared as though he had zoned out, but John was sure that he was still listening, soaking up every word, waiting with baited breath to see what John had made of the information.

“You did it for the game, to beat Moriarty that much is true. But you had another reason, didn’t you? You had no choice. You had to jump, to disappear, you couldn’t tell us, I understand that now, I do.”He murmured quietly, trying to get through to his friend; to convince Sherlock that he finally understood, that he gets it, that all of the anger has seeped out of his body into a puddle of regret at his feet.

Sherlock doesn’t answer him, head bowed, staring at his hands in his lap as he fiddles with them uncharacteristically nervously.

“Mycroft, he told me about the snipers, about what happened at St. Bart’s, about Moriarty killing himself. You did it to save us, to protect all of our lives, you were on the run for _two years_ , and when you returned…” He paused to collect himself, momentarily unable to continue.

“When you returned, we, no, _I_ ,” he corrected himself pointedly, “Treated you with nothing but hostility and anger, and I was wrong to do that to you, Sherlock, I was so wrong. I should have let you explain, I should have asked, but I didn’t, I should have done everything differently, I was so angry that I let it overwhelm everything else. Please believe me, that I am so sorry Sherlock.”

Sherlock raised his head, “It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have known,” he absolved John softly.  
His voice had a hint of melancholy that pulled at John’s heart. Sherlock was miserable. He had been miserable since his return, and John hadn’t noticed, hadn’t given a damn about his friends emotional state, to focussed on his own to open his eyes to his surroundings. He had fucked up, big time.

John sighed, giving Sherlock a gentle look, “Why didn’t you tell me Sherlock? Why didn’t you kick my ungrateful ass to the pavement?” God knows he would have deserved it, and worse.

Sherlock abruptly stood and started pacing the flat in agitation,

“I don’t know why I didn’t tell you, I never thought you’d be so affected, I…I wasn’t prepared for your response, I didn’t know how to make it better, you were so angry…” John winced guiltily, watching Sherlock gesture animatedly in a vaguely manic way.

“I don’t know why I didn’t tell you, I didn’t- _I don’t know!_ ” Sherlock stopped on the spot and twisted his hands in his hair, pulling at the short curls (that thankfully had returned to their natural colour), and his eyes screwed tight.

John rose from his chair and warily approached Sherlock, not unlike the way someone would approach a wild animal in distress. He gently placed his hand on Sherlock’s left arm, tugging slightly, and as a result, Sherlock’s hands fell limply to his sides.  
"Hey, it's alright, it's okay", insisted gently, keeping his hand curled loosely around Sherlock’s bicep as a point of contact, an anchor, looking up into his flatmate’s red rimmed, exhausted gaze.

His entire icy mask had fallen away, as if he lacked the energy to keep it in place. Defeat, regret and pain shone through his unique blue/grey eyes (John never was able to pin them down to a single colour) but there was a hint of hope there too, the light returning to his eyes agonisingly slowly the more he searched John’s face and saw nothing but the benevolence of a best friend, his blogger, his conductor of light.

  
  
“I missed you, John Watson,” He murmured, “I owe you a thousand apologies.” He dropped his head, and John could see the weight that admission held, the importance of the confession, of the sentimentality of the conversation, the type of conversation they’d never really shared.

“I missed you so much.”

 

John’s heart clenched at Sherlock’s heartfelt words. He’d never heard Sherlock baritone voice sound that distressed; that… broken.

Ever the Doctor, John couldn’t stand to see Sherlock in pain, he was overcome with the need to be close to him, although they were already standing almost toe-to-toe, he felt the addictive pull that Sherlock Holmes had always held to him. Sherlock was home, this was how it should be, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, together again, finally. In addition he was pretty sure he could use some reassurance as well, but comforting Sherlock became his first priority.

With the rush of emotion, John pulled Sherlock down into a firm embrace, and despite the fact that he had never left, he finally felt home, the smell of cigarettes, eucalyptus and London filling his nostrils as he pressed his face into Sherlock's neck unashamedly.  
He felt the detective’s body stiffen in surprise for a moment at the sudden intimacy, before melting against him, arms coming up to grip the back of John’s jumper, holding him with a slight tremor, but just as tightly, like a lifeline, a light in the darkness.

“I missed you too you bastard,” John said affectionately, “and yes, _of course_ I forgive you.”  
  
  
He thought back to the medical file that Mycroft, and immediately dismissed it. He was sure Sherlock had a lot of stories to tell, none of them good, but he’d decided.  
He wasn’t going to read that damn file, there had been enough lying in their friendship to last a lifetime,  
Sherlock would tell him in his own time, or he wouldn’t, in the end what did it matter?

He had him back, home and whole, like he’d begged for, everything else could wait.

“You were so far away,' he sighed, "where did you go?” not really expecting a full answer just yet.

  
“I was two light years away from you John,” Sherlock eventually answered into his hair, causing John to frown in confusion, remembering bits of Sherlock’s manic astronomy lesson;

“Wait. But you said-?”

“Oh I was never physically that far from you, although it sometimes felt like it. No, I was away for two years John, in the dark. That’s how far your light travelled to find me again.”

John Watson, always his conductor of light, the spark that grew into a fire, leading him home, to London, to 221B Baker Street; Home to John.

 

  
  
~End~


End file.
